


A Temporary Alliance

by cominginside



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Pittsburgh Penguins, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cominginside/pseuds/cominginside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike Green ends up stranded when his flight's cancelled.  Jordan Staal has an extra bed in his hotel room. Things don't go quite as either of them expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Temporary Alliance

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/hockeyanonmeme/460.html?thread=510668#t510668) on [](http://hockeyanonmeme.livejournal.com/profile)[**hockeyanonmeme**](http://hockeyanonmeme.livejournal.com/). Set sometime around the end of the season, when the guys are going home.

"I'm sorry, sir," the woman behind the hotel counter says, "but we have _no rooms_. The only thing I can do for you is to try calling around and seeing if the any hotels nearby might have anything." There is a careful, clipped tone to her voice that suggests that if Mike pushes this, she may actually snap and stab him to death with the pen chained to the counter. He isn't sure he'd blame her.

"No, thanks, it's okay," he says. "Sorry."

This is the third hotel he's been to in the last half hour. He's soaked through, thanks to the torrential downpour that grounded his flight and every other flight out of the airport. He's stuck in Pittsburgh, of all cities, because of that same downpour, which had hit the east coast just after his flight had left Dulles and forced the pilot to reroute here. His baggage is, well, _somewhere_. No one at the airline information desk had been able to figure that one out. The last thing he'd heard had been something about Germany. He wonders if he can get Marco to pick it up for him.

What he'd really like right now, even more than his luggage, is for the rain to stop, but--as that doesn't seem to be happening any time soon--he'd settle for a hotel room and a change of clothes. Unfortunately, his flight was one of the last to land, and everything within walking distance of the airport is full. The obvious thing to do would be to take a taxi further out, but Mike's afraid that as soon as he does that, his flight will be un-postponed, and he'll have to scramble right back to the airport.

Just as he's starting to seriously consider stripping down in the hotel's public bathroom and drying his clothes under the hand dryer, he hears someone call his name. The voice is familiar, but not overly so; not a team mate or a friend, then.

It takes him a few seconds to find the source of the voice. Even in a hotel lobby filled with damp, unhappy people, though, Jordan Staal stands out--tall and blond and quickly working his way through the mob towards Mike.

"I thought it was you," Jordan says once he comes to a stop in front of Mike. "You stuck here too?"

"Yeah," Mike says. "Flight got rerouted and then cancelled."

"Sucks," Jordan offers, sympathetically.

Mike nods. He really isn't sure what to say now. It's not that he and Jordan hate each other or anything--team rivalries are team rivalries, but Mike doesn't take them personally. He's just never had to have an actual conversation with the guy before, and he doesn't really know where to start.

"Look, my flight's cancelled too," Jordan says, "and I think I got one of the last hotel rooms here. If you need a place to crash, I've got an extra bed." He pauses. "And some towels."

"Seriously?" Mike asks before he can come up with something a little less insulting.

Jordan shrugs. "Yeah, why not?"

"Uh, thanks," Mike says. Jordan tilts his head towards the elevators and Mike trails along after him, wondering what other surprises the day has in store for him.

A hot shower and a cup of coffee later, Mike feels distinctly more at ease with the world. The room's just the standard two double beds, shitty art, and a TV, but he's warm and wrapped up in a bathrobe and sitting down, so he's got no complaints.

He grabs the TV remote from Jordan's bed and flips channels for a while, skipping past the sports channels and eventually settling on CMT, which is showing a Carrie Underwood special. Mike wonders if it's against protocol to find another player's wife hot.

"Seriously?" Jordan asks when he emerges from the shower. Mike shrugs and tosses the remote towards him.

"There's nothing else on," he says. "Unless you really want to watch some shitty movie where whatsherface from Party of Five is a hooker."

Jordan gives him a doubtful look and does some channel surfing of his own. Mike watches the screen flicker with vague interest and smirks a bit when Jordan stops on Lifetime.

"Man, she's not even naked," Jordan says after a few minutes of watching uncomfortable looking actors exchange awkward dialogue.

"Told you," Mike says, stretching out a bit further. "Check pay per view or something, I guess."

"Fuck that," Jordan says, dropping the remote onto the side table. "Let's just get drunk."

The minibar in their room has a pathetic selection, but Jordan somehow manages to talk the concierge into bringing them a couple of bottles of decent whisky. Mike makes the run to the ice machine still in his bathrobe, earning a scandalized look from an old woman he passes in the hall. The teenage girl with her looks much more appreciative, which makes Mike much more uncomfortable. Jordan laughs at him when he relays the experience.

"To summer," Jordan says, once they've both got a glass in their hand. "Whenever it feels like actually showing up."

Mike laughs, a little bitterly. "Cheers," he says. The whisky burns smooth going down, and by the time he's finished his first glass, he can feel it settling warm into his bones and muscles.

By the time he's finished his third glass, the horrible movie about hookers isn't so bad. He and Jordan have come up with a sort of unofficial drinking game involving gratuitous cleavage shots, which is definitely helping the enjoyment level.

"Have you ever fucked a hooker?" Jordan asks him suddenly. Mike turns to stare at him incredulously.

"Uh, _no_ ," he says. "What the fuck?"

Jordan shrugs. "I dunno. I don't think I know anyone who has." There's a long pause and Mike wonders if it's safe to go back to staring at the screen in hopes of tits or if Jordan's going to keep asking him stupid questions.

"Eric threatened to buy me one once," Jordan says instead.

"Really?" Mike asks.

"Yeah, back when I was 18," Jordan says. "He told me to get laid or he'd get me laid. I don't know where he was planning on getting one, though. It's not like he's ever had to use one." He pauses and makes a face. "I hope. Ew. Fuck. That's gross."

Mike can't help it; he starts giggling. Jordan just looks _so disgusted_ that it's hilarious.

"Fuck you, you try imagining it," Jordan says.

"No, thanks," Mike manages to say before he's laughing again. Jordan throws a pillow at him, and when he misses, throws the second pillow, which Mike somehow finds the coordination to grab before it hits him in the face. He spills the last bit of his drink--his sixth? Seventh?--on himself in the process, though.

"Fuck," he says. "Hand me the bottle?"

"No, fuck you, you laughed at my trauma," Jordan says, clinging to the open bottle like Mike might get up and try to steal it or something. He looks at his bed and frowns. "Now I have no pillows."

"I'll trade you your pillows for whisky," Mike says, patting the one sitting next to him. Jordan stares at him and hums something that might be vaguely related to that Toby Keith song about beer and horses and whatever the fuck, but eventually he gets up and wobbles his way over to Mike's bed, where he collapses uselessly in a pile next to Mike.

"Nice," Mike says, and grabs the bottle. He spends a few seconds trying to figure out how to get the liquor into the glass when he can't seem to hold it upright, then shrugs and just drinks from the bottle.

"Cooties," Jordan says, rolling over and looking seriously at Mike. "Capitals cooties. Ruining the whisky forever."

Mike laughs at him and holds the bottle out of reach when Jordan grabs for it.

"'s got cooties, you don't want it," he says. Jordan pouts and rolls over until he's on top of Mike, still reaching for the bottle.

Mike's distracted enough to let him have it, because he's suddenly got a lap full of barely dressed Jordan Staal to contend with, and keeping his grip on the bottle is somewhere pretty far down the list of things he's thinking about. Not that he's really thinking at all, at this point, because he's drunk as shit and there's a hot man on his lap, and if Mike were any more sober he'd probably realize that this was never going to end well.

The thing is, Mike's pretty easy when he's drunk, and he's definitely not as straight as people tend to think. So when Jordan shows no sign of actually moving away and just shifts around a bit on top of Mike, he gets hard pretty much instantaneously. Were he not completely terrified that he's about to get punched in the face and probably thrown into the hallway in nothing but a bathrobe and boxers, he'd be impressed that his dick is even functioning, given the alcohol content in his blood.

Jordan doesn't punch him, though, just looks down at him and grins and takes a long drag from the bottle, the imagery of which does absolutely nothing to help Mike not be turned on. In fact, he has to stop breathing just to avoid whimpering, and that's what catches Jordan's attention.

"Oh," Jordan says, after a few seconds, and then he _wriggles_ , and Mike gives it up as a lost cause and groans.

Jordan's flushed and messy above him, hair still slightly damp, and he doesn't look pissed off or grossed out at all. In fact, he looks _pleased_ , and then downright smug when he wriggles again and pulls another noise out of Mike.

Mike wants to ask him what the fuck he's doing, or maybe tell him to fuck off and stop being a cocktease, but when he opens his mouth, Jordan leans down and kisses him, so he doesn't get to ask anything at all.

It's not a great kiss. They're drunk and uncoordinated and the angle's all wrong, noses bumping and teeth clicking together. The second one's marginally better, and the third one, once Mike's pushed Jordan down a little until they actually fit together properly, is amazing. Jordan tastes like whisky and heat and everything Mike probably shouldn't want right now, and he kisses like he's trying to prove himself.

Like this, Mike can feel Jordan's cock hard against his leg, hot and slightly damp even with Jordan's boxer-briefs covering it. He tries to get Jordan's bathrobe off, pushing somewhat ineffectually at it until he uncovers shoulders, collarbone, stomach, but the tie confounds his fumbling fingers and he ends up just yanking at it in frustration. Jordan pushes his hands away and somehow gets it undone, then takes care of Mike's while he's at it.

Their underwear is a lot easier to remove, fingers under waistbands and hips apart, Mike arching off the bed to get his off in a way that apparently catches Jordan's eye, because he stops what he's doing to watch. Mike flushes a little under the scrutiny and says, "c'mon, get naked."

"Bossy," Jordan says, but he finishes pulling off his clothes and flops back on top of Mike.

"Fuck," Mike gasps, rutting up into the soft skin of Jordan's hip. Jordan licks a stripe along Mike's clavicle and looks up.

"Wanna?" he asks, mouth curved up in a way that Mike vaguely thinks should be illegal. He's so distracted by Jordan's mouth, all pink and wet and illicit, that he nearly misses what Jordan's asking.

"What?" he says, stupidly, because he's convinced he didn't get that right.

"Wanna fuck?" Jordan asks, thrusting his hips against Mike like Mike needs a reminder of what fucking entails.

"Uh," Mike says, because Jordan's still moving against him, cock slick and solid against Mike's stomach, and it's really hard to think of a good reason to say no, even though he feels like that's what he should be saying.

"When was the last time you got laid?" Jordan asks, reaching down and arranging Mike's legs so he fits between them. Mike whimpers a bit as his dick brushes up against Jordan's.

"Fuck you, I get laid all the time," he says; the fact that it's true doesn't make it sound any less pathetic.

"Like this?" Jordan asks, pressing down so that Mike's legs spread further, Jordan slipping a little lower between them until the tip of his cock is just barely brushing against Mike's ass. He stops like that and looks at Mike, waiting for an answer.

And the truth is, it's been for-fucking-ever since Mike's gotten properly fucked. Hooking up with guys during the season is nearly impossible, for one, and while Mike's definitely come to practice with some aches in places that aren't related to hockey before, it's not something he can do often.

All in all, what Jordan's offering sounds pretty damn good.

"OK, yeah," he says, rolling his hips up to watch Jordan's breath catch. "If you've got stuff for it."

"Fuck," Jordan says, voice rough, and he kisses Mike hard before he stands up and disappears over towards his bag. Mike's content to lie where he is, staring at the ceiling as it undulates gently above him. He's drunk, he knows this, and he doesn't exactly have a great track record when it comes to making decisions under the influence. Somehow, though, he doesn't feel like this is going to be something he regrets in the morning.

This may not have been how he'd expected to spend the night, but so far it seems to be working out in his favour.

Jordan tosses a couple of foil packages onto the bed and climbs back on top of Mike, licking his way into Mike's mouth, easy like they do this all the time. Usually Mike would be trying to reassert his dominance or whatever, but right now he's lazy from all the liquor and happy enough to let Jordan do the work. No need to turn this into a battle of wills when they're both getting what they want anyway.

They make out for a few minutes, hands roaming as they learn each other's bodies. Jordan's calluses are familiar and comforting against Mike's skin; the smell of liquor and fresh sweat and sex is making Mike's head swim even more than the alcohol in his sytem. He moans when Jordan licks his neck, dick throbbing.

"Can we just--skip the fucking foreplay?" he asks, startled at how rough his voice sounds.

"Yeah, fuck, lemme just--" Jordan says, and rummages around in the pile of blanket and pillow next to them until he's got the little packet of lube in his hand.

Mike spreads his legs without being asked, hisses a little at the shock of cold when Jordan slips the tip of his finger into his ass. Jordan stops, but Mike doesn't need coddling, so he presses back against Jordan until he gets the message and keeps going.

"Fuck," Jordan says, "fuck, you're hot."

Mike laughs a little, breathlessly, not sure whether Jordan means that as a compliment or a comment on his body temperature. He doesn't really care as long as Jordan doesn't stop what he's doing.

"I'm not gonna fucking break," Mike says a minute later, when Jordan's still only got the one finger inside him. "Hurry the fuck up."

"You are fucking bossy," Jordan says, but he squirts some more lube on his fingers and presses a second one in, quickly enough that Mike gasps and clenches down around them. Jordan groans and Mike shivers, spreading his legs further and arching up when Jordan nudges against his prostate.

The rest of the prep goes pretty quickly, mostly because every time Jordan tries to slow down Mike starts bitching at him.

"Just get your fucking cock in my ass, Staal," he says, finally, "fuck. If I wanted finger-fucking I'd do it myself."

Jordan lets out a strangled moan and pulls his fingers out, wiping them haphazardly on the comforter. "Should have gotten you to do that, it'd be fucking hot," he says. Mike almost says, "Next time," but he knows a one night stand when he's in one, so he stays quiet.

There's the familiar sound of a condom being opened and then the blunt, hot press of Jordan's cock against his ass. Even with the prep, Mike tenses up a little as Jordan pushes in steadily, but the slight discomfort fades pretty quickly once he remembers how to get his body to relax. Above him, Jordan's got his eyes shut and his lower lip caught in his teeth, shaking slightly but not moving otherwise. Mike takes the few seconds of reprieve to jerk himself off a bit, bringing his dick back to full hardness.

"Shit, you're tight," Jordan says, finally opening his eyes and looking down at Mike.

"Fuckin' move," Mike says, bringing a leg up to wrap around Jordan's waist and try to push him closer.

There's no finesse to their fucking, just a hard rhythm that makes Mike grunt every time Jordan thrusts into him. He keeps his hand around his dick, squeezing it through the first bit, then stroking himself roughly once they get going. His other hand finds Jordan's hair, grown just long enough that Mike can thread his fingers through it and pull Jordan's head back to lick at his throat until Jordan's shaking above him. Mike wants to bite down and make Jordan yell, but he knows that bite marks are hard to explain. Instead, he clenches down around Jordan and tugs his hair at the same time; it works well enough, Jordan's hips slamming into him sharply.

"Jesus," Jordan breathes, and Mike drops his hand to Jordan's hip and holds on, because he can't do anything else now. He's dripping precome all over his stomach, cock jumping every time Jordan manages to brush past Mike's prostate, and he slicks his fingers with it and picks up the pace. He knows he isn't going to last much longer.

Jordan comes first, hips stuttering rough against Mike's ass, fingers bruising his thigh and wrenching up the sheets next to them. He whines, high and needy, and shudders a few times, and Mike watches him and presses his fingers against the underside of his cock, just below the head, and that's all it takes for him to follow Jordan over the edge, come spilling hot and thick over his hand and landing in streaks across his stomach.

"Fuck," Jordan says, voice wrecked, and Mike groans in agreement as Jordan pulls out and topples down beside him.

Mike winces a bit as he stretches out his legs, muscles aching from the position he'd been in. He feels good, though, even with the aches and bruises; post-orgasmic lethargy is settling in already, making him feel loose-limbed, content, and sleepy.

"Not sleeping on the wet spot," he says, forcing himself to sit up and start throwing pillows back onto what had been Jordan's bed. Jordan mumbles something that sounds like agreement before rolling over and sliding off the bed. He ties the condom off and tosses it into the garbage can as Mike half-heartedly wipes come off his stomach with the already messy sheet.

They end up sprawled comfortably against each other in the cleaner of the beds. Mike's half-asleep when something Jordan had said earlier comes back to him.

"Wait, you were still a virgin at 18?" he asks, opening one eye to look at Jordan.

"Huh?" Jordan asks. "No?"

"But--Eric, and the hooker," Mike says.

"Oh," Jordan says. "I'd only fucked guys," he says, voice slurring with exhaustion and alcohol. "Finally got a girlfriend to put out. No hookers."

"Oh," Mike says. "Good."

"Yeah," Jordan agrees, but he's already asleep by the time he finishes the word, and Mike's gone a minute or two later.

He wakes up, briefly, disoriented and confused when Jordan's phone rings somewhere around five in the morning.

"Flight's back," Jordan says, and Mike nods and waves vaguely towards the part of the room that Jordan's voice is coming from. He tries to say thanks for the whole room thing, but he isn't awake enough to form words. He stays awake just long enough to wonder if putting out in exchange for a place to stay makes him a hooker, and if that means that Jordan's slept with one after all, before he falls back asleep.

The next time he wakes up, he's got the room to himself and his own phone's blasting some sort of horrible Russian dance music at him. He'd made the mistake of leaving it unguarded around Alex a few days ago and hasn't fixed it yet; right now he's regretting everything that led to this horrible awakening.

"Fuck," he mumbles, grabbing it and answering it with a sleep-roughened, cranky, "What?"

"Mr. Green?" says a woman's voice. She's entirely too perky for--Mike squints at the clock on the bedside table--7:45 a.m. and Mike kind of hates her.

"Yeah?" he says.

She tells him that his flight's been rescheduled for 10 a.m. and suggests that he arrive as early as possible at the airport, as security lines are long. He mutters something about lack of warning that she ignores in favour of telling him how to get his ticket switched to the new flight.

When he hangs up, all he wants to do is flop back into bed and pass back out, but he somehow manages to drag himself into the shower. The fact that he's seriously sticky and hungover helps propel him into the hot water, which solves one problem and lessens the other.

There's a note from Jordan next to the coffee machine, barely legible handwriting informing him that Jordan paid for the room already. At the bottom, there's a phone number. Mike stares at it for a second, then shrugs and adds it to his phone. Who knows, he thinks. It's not like he saw last night coming. The future could hold just about anything.

Maybe he'll even find his luggage waiting for him.


End file.
